The Thermodynamics of the Moka Pot
by tetleybag
Summary: Minerva McGonagall may be able to bend the laws of physics - but when an owl from the Ministry brings Amelia Bones back into her life, she realises that where there is steam, there will always be pressure.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This was written for the 2010 edition of the Minerva Fest on Livejournal. My infinite thanks go to The Real Snape and Featherxquill for being such patient and helpful and downright fantastic betas, and to the Grande Doyenne of Old-Lady Fic, Kelly Chambliss, for a truly spellbinding prompt.

**Disclaimer: **The world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and licensees.

**The Thermodynamics of the Moka Pot**

**by Tetley**

**/\/\/\**

**-Hogwarts-**

Minerva McGonagall has the most eloquent nostrils in the world.

They can scold and praise, flirt and reprimand. They can express love and disdain, fear and anxiety. Sometimes they speak of desire.

The one thing they cannot do is lie.

So when Rolanda asks her the question, the one that has been burning inside her and that she's tried so hard not to ask, she doesn't need to wait for an answer.

She picks up her clothes, grabs her broom, and silently closes the bedroom door behind herself.

/\/\/\

Minerva pulls her knees close to her chest as she sits up in the four-poster, running a hand over the crumpled sheet that still bears the warmth of Rolanda.

It does nothing to comfort her.

_'Are you with me or with her?'_

She knows that she would have given herself away sooner or later. She isn't a natural-born liar and deceiver; there simply is no way Rolanda would not have noticed at some point the sharp increase in Ministry appointments, or in evenings Minerva spends alone in her study, answering correspondence. Rolanda has an eye for birds; it cannot have escaped her that it is always the same tawny owl that delivers the letters, and that it always leaves with an answer. Perhaps, hopefully, she has never heard the bolt of the study door quietly slide shut on occasions, the silencing charm that sometimes seals the cracks of the door. But even then, she cannot possibly have missed the withdrawal, the rising impatience, the small squabbles that seemed to appear out of the blue more and more often of late, just in time whenever intimacy loomed on the horizon.

Except tonight.

Tonight, after that letter, that letter in the small, no-nonsense handwriting in deep purple ink that once again unfolded an utterly infuriating argument in exquisite prose and perfect syntax. Damn the Head of Magical Law Enforcement for being the living proof that grammar can be sexy.

And damn herself for letting Rolanda touch her in the state in which the letter had left her.

It was as good as a confession, only crueller.

/\/\/\

Up and up Rolanda zooms, past the clock of the Astronomy Tower, across the expanse of the lake, not slowing until she hits a height where the night air is chilly enough to provide relief against her searing cheeks.

She's known for a while, really.

She can't pinpoint the beginning, not exactly. Minerva has been more withdrawn ever since that day in May, when Potter stumbled out of that maze with Cedric Diggory's dead body in his arms. Rolanda hasn't taken it personally, needed time for herself, in fact. After all, hardly any teacher had known the Diggory boy as she had.

Yes, Rolanda gave Minerva her space just as she took her own; she forgave a few biting remarks, didn't attach great importance to a decline in their sex life that was perhaps only natural, with the stress and the general situation and the fluctuations that come with any relationship.

But then, one day in early August around tea-time, a small tawny owl brought Amelia Bones back into their lives.

It announced itself with an irritated flutter, followed by the brisk, no-nonsense knock of a ridiculously small beak. Rolanda could have sworn that it even gave a curt nod as it stalked in across the table by the window. The owl coolly extended its foot to deliver its message, selected two and a half treats out of a bowl that Minerva held out to it (an officially-approved Ministry rate, it seemed) and took off with a swish.

So did Minerva.

There was another owl, followed by another sudden takeoff soon after that. Something about Potter and some hearing, Minerva was to tell her afterwards. Then one about new NEWT requirements for aspiring Auror trainees. After that, Rolanda lost count. Anyway, there is no way of keeping track, with Minerva being on Order duty in London nearly every day, and some nights, too. But of one thing Rolanda is sure: it isn't for Alastor Moody that that bloody old-fashioned Muggle dress with the flower print has suddenly reappeared from the depths of some trunk in the back of the wardrobe.

The one with the thin fabric that plays so perfectly around Minerva's legs when the wind is right, and that makes for gorgeous cleavage whatever the conditions.

Rolanda tried not to think much of it at first. After all, Minerva has exchanged smiles with more than two or three sturdy, short-haired witches in the past eighteen years. If anything, Rolanda always found that strangely exciting, all the more so when the smiles were reciprocated. Who doesn't take pride in an attractive lover? And it isn't as if she's never let her own gaze wander, down Gwenog Jones's athletic back, and up Clara Ivanova's mile-long legs. It's never been more than a little game of thoughts, a memory of wilder times. A look outside the box that doesn't do any harm, may even freshen up a relationship. And their relationship can do with some freshening up. Or at least Minerva seems to think so, judging by the withdrawal, the distance, the sudden lack of desire for the long-time lover's touch.

It was therefore with some timidity that Rolanda let her hand wander over tonight as Minerva quietly slipped between the sheets on her side of the bed, long past midnight. It was risky, but damn it, she is a woman, not a marble statue, and she'd gone without it for too long not to try.

She took care to move gently, trying hard neither to beg nor impose, trying even harder to resolve not to be offended if the advance was yet again unwelcome. But for once in those busy, stressed-out weeks, it wasn't.

Quite the opposite, really.

The sheets rustled lightly as Minerva rolled onto her back, supple and relaxed, and as she arched into the hand that felt for her breast, she did so with the soft, throaty moan that Rolanda had missed for so long.

Encouraged by the nipples that spoke as clear a language as the parting thighs, Rolanda trailed kisses along the swell of small breasts and down the stomach, where a sweet hint of soft flesh had begun to appear of late. She ran the tips of her fingers through the triangle of black curls, and when she moved down between the pale legs that had fully opened for her at last, she found her lover ready. Ready to embrace, smooth, musky and creamy, hard and soft and pulsating.

Not at all like the Minerva who has just called it a day.

More like the Minerva in the wee hours of a long night of lovemaking, who, warm and heavy-voiced with the first slumber, rolls over and murmurs: 'I want you _again_.'

/\/\/\

Minerva stands by the open French window, vainly willing the night air to clear her mind.

Not a breeze deigns to make its presence felt. The gentle slopes of the grounds, usually a healthy green, lie jaundiced under the waxing moon. There isn't a cloud in the sky, nor a bird flapping its wings above the silent crowns of the trees. The rocks rise dark and ragged from the low waters of the lake, and even Pomona's well-tended flowerbeds look exhausted in the fallow moonlight. There hasn't been any rain in weeks.

It's as if Scotland has forgotten who she is.

Stifling a yawn, Minerva crosses the room and opens a small cabinet. She takes out a tin and a tarnished, silver moka pot, and scoops a few teaspoons of finely-ground espresso powder into the metal basket. Sleep won't come anyway; she might as well give it a reason to stay away.

The top of the moka creaks as she screws it on, as always, and she winces at the noise. As always.

They bought it on their first holiday together, Rolanda and she. In a dim Muggle shop in a quaint place somewhere in the mountains of Tuscany. A heap of creamy ochre buildings nesting near the top of a hill with dark green slopes and a cypress-studded silhouette, enveloped in the whitish haze of Italian summer. Or is that the Gaussian blur of her memory?

Their love was fresh back then, the quiet in-love-ness of two middle-aged witches who have seen too much of the rough days. She remembers long walks along wine fields and through olive groves, the air heavy with dust and late afternoon sun, and crickets chirping at a distance. Remembers the feeling of tanned arms brushing each other as if casually, of lips salty from the heat touching when nobody was near. Hours of watching the late summer sun set over the sea, and of slowly falling asleep in each other's arms after endless caresses that blended into careful, tender lovemaking.

An impatient splutter from the moka pot jerks Minerva out of her musings, like a visitor clearing her throat at a distracted hostess. She pulls it from the fire quickly, before the coffee spoils – too quickly, judging by the small black jet that spurts from the spout and narrowly misses her dressing gown. She mutters a sharp curse, in Gaelic because nothing soothes the nerves as promptly as a few good guttural sounds, and places the pot safely on the back burner. Letting her hands trail along the cups on the shelf – Rolanda's green Harpies beaker, the porcelain mug with the literary reference from last year's Women's Day – Minerva settles on a plain, white cup and pours herself three inches of strong, thick espresso.

She leans against the frame of the French window and takes a sip. It tastes burnt; she should have paid more attention.

She circles the rim of the mug with her finger.

Funny how just when you think you have enough practice, your lack of attention can be trusted to get back at you.

And you'd think that routine makes things easier.

When perhaps it just makes you careless.

Routine, a word that brings up thoughts. Of fixed sides of the bed. Kisses every morning, every night, every time you leave and every time you come in, because that is the way you do it. Sex that's consistently good, more so with each year you spend learning more about the body of the other, how it responds, what it craves, what makes it twitch and melt and buck. But as much as she relishes Rolanda's slow, undemanding touch, as often as she's come at no more than a well-timed pinch of a nipple, or a teasing kiss on the inside of a thigh – there is something in her that longs for the hit-and-miss of the earlier days. And even though this, theirs, is the dependable love she's always wanted, especially since the train wreck that was her relationship with Amelia Bones (mostly miss, but when it hit, oh, did they hit it hard), she somehow finds herself thinking more and more often of the days of percolated coffee and perpetual argument.

/\/\/\

**-Godric's Hollow-**

'Now what?'

Holly Brown flips an auburn curl out of her face as she props herself up on her elbow. There's a distinct frown on her face as she looks down at the middle-aged woman in her bed who just laid a hand upon hers and now gently shakes her head. Dead end, it seems.

Again.

In the six weeks or so that their affair has lasted, Holly has learned that giving this one a good time is harder than anything she's experienced in the fifteen years of her active love life. So far she's willingly arranged herself, because, boy, does Amelia Bones have a way of seeing to it that Holly never gets the shorter end of the stick, the proverbial or literal one.

Yet today isn't just slow going. Today is _no_ going.

'I'm sorry.'

Holly reaches for the cigarettes on her nightstand. 'Had your mind somewhere else, eh?' she asks as a small light flares up from the tip of her wand. And not for the first time, she adds in her thoughts. Amelia is distracted of late, not too distracted to give Holly what she wants and then some, but more distracted than when they began this thing after they'd met in some Muggle club and discovered that they had a few abilities and predilections in common. If not much else.

'Yes. Sorry.'

'Just Holly not enough for you today?' Holly quips, still frowning. 'What is it, want the whip?'

Amelia flinches. 'Please ... no.'

'Then what? Got your mind on your work, is it that?' Holly snips her fingers, and an ashtray lands in her hand. 'Perhaps the _work_ that likes to keep you in your office till midnight these days?'

'I'm sorry, Holly.'

Third apology in a row. That's as good as a confession. Unsurprising, really. Granted, Amelia has always worked late, well, _always_ to the extent that Holly can tell. But it's been getting ridiculous. And why exactly is it that so often on those late night shifts, the Head doesn't take Floo calls? Not from her, anyway.

'So, tell me. She suit your special needs better than I do?'

'It's not like that ...'

'Oh, it isn't. Just a meeting of the minds then, is it? Who is she, anyway? Some brainy, semi-frigid – sorry, _alternatively-stimulated_ – Ministry crone who writes dirty memos and likes her tits poked? Or is there a limit to how many of those they hire?'

'I think I should go ...'

'You bet you should.' Holly stubs out her cigarette and throws Amelia her bag and robes. The underwear hasn't even come off yet.

/\/\/\

Outside the rented upper floor of old Mrs Satterthwaite's house, Amelia draws in a deep breath.

It does little to cool her down.

Perhaps this whole thing has been a mistake. She could kick herself for having given in to the illusion that this might be an affair without regrets. Wishful thinking of an ageing bat, blinded by Holly's youth, her straightforwardness in all things sexual, and the confident way of playing her assets that made up for a few harsh features and a bit of common language. And still Amelia wonders how this girl could possibly want more than a bit of light fun and a few discoveries from the square-jawed harridan who could be her mother's older sister.

Perhaps she didn't. Perhaps Amelia has just been wrong to think that an affair without love could be an affair without claims.

And perhaps it might even have ended as it should have, with Holly losing interest, or finding someone more suitable. Perhaps they would have discussed parting as pragmatically as they talked ropes or needles, front or back, tongue or toy – if it hadn't been for that toad of a colleague on whose account Amelia Bones sent good old Miss Agnis to deliver a letter to Minerva McGonagall, for the first time in more than a decade.

Three weeks ago.

Nothing has happened with Minerva, of course. Well, at least not in each other's presence, though that was never verbalised. More than the nightly owls and a bit of between-the-line reading has never been an issue. Not just because Minerva is with another woman now. That does come into it, even though Amelia hardly feels an obligation towards the woman whose arms were wide open when Minerva packed that irritating tartan bag and moved out, eighteen years ago.

No, it isn't so much a sense of propriety and decorum that has made her hold back so far.

Fairness sounds more like it.

Amelia Bones and Minerva McGonagall needed years to realise that they weren't made for forever, years to end the long war of secession between the two most stubborn deputy heads of wizarding Britain. There had always been arguments, political ones, theoretical ones, arguments on priorities and lack of time and general philosophy. They'd been the spice of their relationship for some time, and not a few of them had ended on some desk or carpet, or in a bed when they could be bothered to move there.

But there was a point – and Amelia still can't put a finger on it – when the arguments began to turn into quarrels, and when terms like 'lapdog of a self-righteous old coot' and 'compulsive law-thumper' somehow wriggled their ways between 'democratic legitimation' and 'concerned citizenship'. With increasing practice, helped by natural wit and a talent for acerbic remarks, they'd rapidly gained proficiency in infuriating, then hurting each other, and not just once did they break up forever, only to spend so much time shouting, slamming doors, and shagging each other numb that they might as well admit that they were still a couple.

It took a tall, long-nosed sports girl to end it.

A tall, long-nosed sports girl of seventy years, politely introduced to Amelia as her replacement, one sunny afternoon in May after an untimely return from the ICW conference in Budapest.

The encounter ended with a liberal helping of scathing remarks and several doors being slammed, but in the end, all fell into place. And that, Amelia tells herself, is good. She never would be the domestic type, never could be the partner, the shoulder, the dependable rock in the surf that Minerva McGonagall needed then and still needs now. No. Minerva is better off with the Harpy with the prize-winning deltoids.

It wouldn't do to allow her to lose that for a fleeting folly.

Or a lone woman's craving for some of the old familiarity.

/\/\/\

**-Above****-**

Rolanda has left the lake long behind. She's crossed the first chain of mountains and let the wind and her fancy take her across plains and pastures. She doesn't really care where she is going, as long as she _is_ going.

Damn this feeling.

It's not as if she's never imagined the situation, in a theoretical way. It isn't as if she hasn't made her share of high-minded resolutions, either. Be non-possessive. Don't chase the lover away by suffocating her with jealousy. What is it some wise person once said? If you catch a butterfly, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was.

She likes the imagery.

Yet it all sounds so easy when one is up here among the birds.

Damn.

She thought she was done with the wild days. She's had her share of them, and has enjoyed them, mostly, but enough is enough. A witch's lifespan gives one ample opportunity for one-night-stands, fifteen-minute-stands, fifteen-minutes-_under_-the-stands, you name it. She's loved where she shouldn't have, cheated and been cheated on. Had quiet relationships that ended peacefully, and a rocky one that didn't. Her heart has ached over married women who so often seemed to get the best end of the deal; her legs have shaken from Harpies with quick tongues and a shared sense of fun.

And she doesn't regret a thing.

But all she wanted when she hit seventy was the fond love of a spirit kindred enough to understand her quirks and her passions, yet sufficiently dissimilar to keep a little bit of healthy tension up.

Perhaps she has to re-think.

/\/\/\

_... to be continued ..._


	2. Chapter 2

**-Hogwarts-**

The grass crackles under Minerva's feet as she walks down the yellow-green slopes that lead to the lake.

Four in the morning, and it still hasn't cooled down. Even the birds seem too drained to sing their madrigals.

For an hour now, she's tried to get to the bottom of her behaviour. Of what on earth made her let Rolanda touch her tonight, made her use Rolanda to pacify the arousal that someone else had caused. She's spent half an hour wondering whether, on some subconscious level, she did it to tell Rolanda something, and half an hour berating herself for Muggle psychobabble.

She wonders if it might all have turned out differently if it hadn't been for that strange new woman at the Ministry.

No, probably not.

Looking out over the lake, she lets her thoughts drift back to that day in early August, about three weeks ago.

/\/\/\

'_Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper ... _'

The bronze grille of the lift had barely opened when Minerva squeezed past it. Why was it that these people who were able to conjure up fake windows with custom weather for each employee still didn't manage to produce a lift with a decent voice?

Brushing the last flakes of soot off her robes, Minerva strode down the corridor towards the office of the Department Head.

She spotted Amelia at the far end of the corridor, just outside the heavy doors that led to the Auror Division. Amelia looked flushed and had put on weight – not a good sign in a workaholic with blood pressure history – and was immersed in heated discussion with a pink little blob of a witch. Minerva frowned. Amelia never did have any patience with the housewife-y kind, but surely, as the recently-promoted Head of Magical Law Enforcement, she could show a bit more composure with the mother of some sod who'd got himself into trouble?

'Professor McGonagall!' Amelia blurted out as she spotted her. That took Minerva by surprise. Amelia hadn't addressed her by her last name since Augusta Longbottom's hat was still alive. Even those who didn't know of their past certainly would see nothing untoward in two middle-aged witches being on a first-name basis?

Before she could respond, Amelia had already gone on. 'I appreciate your taking the time about my niece, but I'm afraid something has come up here ... might I ask you ...'

There was a strange intensity in Amelia's eyes as she spoke. Her thick eyebrows had contracted, and her gaze, polite and distant as always when at work, had acquired a firmness that could really only mean one thing.

She wanted to tell Minerva something.

Minerva exhaled. She never allowed this lightly, but then, Amelia never used it lightly, so she probably had a reason. _All right, come in,_ she thought.

Straightening her spine as inconspicuously as possible, she readied herself for the familiar pressure on her temples. With surprise she noticed how much gentler it felt than when she'd first offered herself as a guinea pig, decades ago. Amelia had obviously been practicing. Small wonder; she'd surely had opportunities to hone her skills on the occasional Death Eater in this job. After obtaining special authorisation, of course. This _was_ Amelia Bones.

The corridor began to blur in front of Minerva's eyes as the soft throbbing ebbed and gave way to the sensation of Amelia's mind entering hers. A light shiver passed through her; the feeling of Legilimency never ceased to amaze her. There was always nervousness, for you never could be sure what memories would come up, what images the meeting of your mind and that of the Legilimens would make you share. But there was also the physical side of it. The presence of the probing mind taking hold, exploring how far you allowed it to go, expanding inside you to the extent that you opened up for it.

There was a strange beauty to the sensation.

Somewhere at a distance, she heard how Amelia kept talking, introduced the pink-clad woman, perhaps, or maybe just uttered politenesses to distract from the invisible bond she was forming. And all the while, she probed. Slowly. Tentatively. Like her foot had probed, years ago, under the chequered tablecloth in a small Muggle restaurant. That foot in its black high-heel that had done such wonders for the sturdy calves.

You really never could be sure what memories would come up.

There was talk about appointments now. Minerva caught snippets like 'wait' and 'talk to the Undersecretary' and 'my office', as the memory of the restaurant became clearer, and she didn't know if it was Amelia's mind that held her there or her own. _Chez Odile_, it had been. In the Theatre District. A table all the way in the back, nicely out of view and earshot from the other patrons.

By the third course, that foot had moved all the way up to ...

'Very well,' Amelia clipped as she withdrew from Minerva's mind with an abruptness that almost made Minerva stumble. 'May I ask you to wait for me, if it doesn't take too much of your time?'

Minerva understood. 'Yes, Madam Bones. I will need to run a small errand first, but if you don't take too long I shall be glad to make the time.'

'Thank you, Professor,' Amelia said and turned back to the pink woman, who had the most curious look on her face.

/\/\/\

_Chez Odile_ hadn't changed much in the last decades. Odile, an elderly lady now, with streaks of grey in her wiry, black hair, was twice the woman she used to be, but otherwise, she was quite the same. She still wore old-fashioned mules with sensible heels and an apron with a floral pattern. She still refused to hand out worldly things such as menus, firmly believing that patrons were not to be trusted with such far-reaching decisions as what to have for lunch, or worse, what wine to drink with it. The dark, oaken furniture and the crisp, chequered tablecloths were every bit as quaint as they used to be, and a smell of garlic and Merlot hung heavily in the air. It was one of the most enticing aromas Minerva knew.

The evening was young by French standards, so there weren't many patrons yet.

'Bonsoir, madame,' said Odile as Minerva entered the small, dimly-lit restaurant. 'Mais ... mais _non_!' Wiping her hands on her apron, she scuttled over in her mules and opened her arms to press Minerva to her ample bosom. Two kisses, real ones, not dainty pecks in the air, placed themselves next to the square spectacles, and a torrent of words poured down on Minerva, who patiently waited until Odile remembered that it was Amelia who spoke French, not she.

'I give you your old table, yes?' Odile asked at last. 'You haven't been here so long; you must try the _filet d'agneau à la Proven__ç__ale_, and I give you a beautiful St. Emilion with that, dark glass, with a hint of cherries and violets, perfect for the _agneau_. Amelia, she is coming?'

'Yes, later,' Minerva said.

'Ah. I will prepare the same for her, and when she is there, I bring you the apéritif.' She was gone before Minerva had the chance to say anything else. What should she have said anyway? By the way, Amelia and I aren't lovers anymore? Hardly. And the question of what exactly _agneau_ was was futile. She'd get it anyway. Might as well ask afterwards in case it was something ... well, you never knew with the French.

They'd been here often, back in the day. _Chez Odile_ was where Amelia's foot had first seduced Minerva, on Griselda Marchbanks's ninetieth birthday. They'd laid eyes on each other in the buffet queue at the party, sharing a smirk over Muriel Prewett's snide comments on the dishes as she loaded her plate with as much as she could fit on it. That smirk had led to a smile, the smile to a word, a word to another. And before they'd even reached the soup, they'd retrieved their coats, excused themselves, separately of course, under fragile pretexts of emergency calls and headaches that the hostess was polite enough to play along with, and Amelia had swept Minerva first to Odile's and then off her feet, with ample help of garlic and Merlot and a black, polished leather pump.

Odile hadn't even berated them for skiving off dessert.

'Sorry I'm late.'

Minerva startled. She hadn't heard Amelia come in.

Amelia laid her hand on Minerva's shoulder by way of a greeting and circled the table to take her seat. She looked weary, which Minerva took both as a good sign and a bad one. Good because Amelia Bones had never been one to show signs of weakness, not even by allowing her jowls to hang when nobody but a friend was looking, and Minerva was glad to see that that, at least, seemed to have changed. Bad because it spoke volumes of what was going on at the Ministry.

'And sorry I had to do this. I couldn't speak freely; I'll explain everything. I hope you don't feel ...'

Minerva shook her head, and just at that point, Odile appeared with two glasses of pastis.

'Well, I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances,' Amelia said as she raised hers, 'but here's to seeing you again.' She took a sip, and added: 'You look tired.'

'I can return the compliment.'

Their gazes drifted to the tiny glasses in front of them. They hadn't had face-to-face meetings alone with each other in years, not counting professional encounters about a niece or a former student, and even then they were seldom one-on-one, what with sentient portraits and fluttering memos rarely having a knack for the art of discreet withdrawal.

'How are you?' Minerva asked, half because she wanted to know, and half in order not to be the one who'd have to answer first.

'Well,' Amelia said. 'The year off did me good.'

A small sip, a nod. 'India, wasn't it?'

Amelia nodded. 'Change of scenery was highly indicated. Twits at St Mungo's had sent me to a Muggle burnout clinic, but I didn't last three days. Relaxation therapy, by Alastor Moody's remaining arse cheek. By the end of the second communal breathing session I wanted to take out my wand and give them a demonstration of what happens when Amelia Bones _lets go_. So I let myself go, as in out the door, and signed up with a small relief organisation in Mumbai. Sharmila Patil put me in touch with her Squib cousin whose friend runs a shelter for women there. All local ownership, no international money, no conditions imposed by well-meaning westerners. It was good work. And I look great in a salwar suit.'

The weary look had almost disappeared from Amelia's face. It crept back as she continued.

'But that's a story for another time. What about you?'

Good question, next question, Minerva thought. 'Busy,' she said.

'I bet you are,' Amelia said between bites of the French bread that Odile had put on the table in the meantime. 'Merlin-in-Lavender setting up that militia of his again and sending you to run all his errands? Don't answer that.'

'Well, there _is_ rather a lot to do, what with the Ministry not exactly doing its job.' Minerva felt a familiar edge creep into her voice.

Amelia frowned. 'You do believe that Riddle's back, don't you?'

'Of course I do! Dumbledore says ...'

'I do _not_ care what Albus Dumbledore says,' Amelia clipped. 'I care what _you_ say.' She leaned back and crossed her arms in front of her chest. 'So. What _do_ you say?'

'He's back, Amelia. I saw the boys. Diggory, that wasn't ... It wasn't some accident. You should have seen it ...' Minerva stopped and readjusted her glasses. She felt for the napkin on her lap, closed her fingers around it under the table.

'I see,' Amelia said.

'You're not one to skirt unpleasant truths, Amelia. Don't you think ...'

'What I think, Minerva, doesn't enter into it. _Merci, _Odile.' Their hostess had arrived with two plates of green asparagus and salmon. First course. The answer to the riddle of the _agneau_ would still have to wait.

'I have to watch my back, Minerva,' she resumed when Odile was gone. 'If I want to stay on this job, that is. And I do, even if they've reduced my powers. I greatly prefer myself to anyone else in this position.' She paused, waiting for Minerva to pick up the knife and fork. Minerva had seniority and longer hair. And Amelia Bones had manners. 'Did you notice the woman I was talking to when you came in?'

'It was hard not to,' Minerva answered.

'Dolores Jane Umbridge. Senior Undersecretary to Fudge since June.'

'Senior what?'

'Undersecretary.'

'Never heard of that.'

'I don't blame you. The position was created especially for her. Now, you may know that the Second in Command always used to be the Head of MLE. Funnily, just as I had been promoted to that honour – against Fudge's will and after much pressure from the Wizengamot – Fudge decided that Magical Law Enforcement was so time-consuming a business that the new Head had better be relieved of some of her more cumbersome duties, such as advising or representing the Minister if need be.'

'And this woman ...'

'Precisely. This woman now fills with her ample presence, and I don't just mean that physically, a job that used to take two or three hours of one's weekly time, and turns it into a full-time affair by making a point of meddling with everything that even shows the slightest meddling potential. And I daresay she does quite a job at it.'

Odile had arrived with the St. Emilion, and Amelia nodded to indicate that she'd be the one to do the tasting.

'Perfect, thank you,' she said. Odile poured them two small servings, just barely up to where the large wine glasses were widest, and set down the bottle between them.

'Honestly,' Amelia resumed. 'I think she'll have a few surprises in store for us, that one. Manipulative type, game-player in the extreme. People games, I mean. The type who'll deal you blows disguised as compliments, who'll drive you up the wall of Courtroom Ten with her sugary sweetness and then snipe you down at her leisure. I'm telling you, duelling Bellatrix Lestrange is more fun than crossing swords with this one. Lestrange at least fought in the open.'

They clinked glasses. 'In any case, Umbridge is partly the reason why I sent you that owl. But first, what I'm going to tell you is going to remain between us. If she catches on that I've been talking, I'll be stamping tickets on the Knight Bus till Nirvana come.'

'Go on,' Minerva said. If Amelia was willing to risk her position over something, then it was worth listening to. Amelia Bones was united with her job in blissful matrimony. Everything else was affairs.

They waited until Odile had served the second course. Minerva breathed a sigh of relief when she saw – and smelled – that the mysterious meat was most likely lamb.

'Have you found a teacher for Defence Against the Dark Arts?'

Minerva shook her head. They had tried everything. Nobody wanted the job. Well, except Severus, but Albus was clear on the matter. Not that Minerva didn't disagree, but when had Albus Dumbledore ever asked her opinion except on the colour of his wallpaper? And even there he'd gone with that ghastly shade of turquoise.

'Well, tell your wise old man to get his act together. Tell him to get anyone. Tell him to get Rita Bloody Skeeter; God knows she could use a job. Get Molly Weasley for all I care; now that the kids are grown she has time, and I know she's a wicked duellist, even if she could never handle a Boggart.'

'You're preaching to the converted,' Minerva sighed. 'I've suggested that already. Well, not Rita Skeeter, but Molly. But he …'

'... thinks she doesn't have the balls for the job.'

'… No, not that. Forget it.'

'Suit yourself,' said Amelia. 'Well, I don't mind if he chooses Stan Shunpike or Argus Filch, or if he ditches Care of Magical Creatures and lets Wilhelmina do it when she comes back …'

'How do you know that?'

'Please …' Amelia shot the ceiling an exasperated look. 'Anyway, tell him to get a teacher. If he fails, I can't guarantee for anything.'

'What do you mean?' Minerva asked. 'What are they planning?'

'They will take measures.'

'They will _what_? Interfere with school business? I can't believe …'

'Please, Minerva. I love your temper, it's always made me want to stick an implement of your choice where you like it best, but hear me out quietly just this once. The Minister thinks that Harry Potter's story is a load of cock-and-bull – yes, I _know_ you think otherwise, but you can't change it, and sadly, neither can I. I don't even have a say in the ministerial decrees, now that I'm no longer Second in Command. But I can warn you. It's all I can do, and it's what I just did.'

/\/\/\

The clock has struck half past four as Minerva reaches the beach by the western shore of the lake. The strip of grey sand is bigger than usual, with the water levels as low as they are. She can reach the flat rocks on dry feet now, and she sits down on one, taking her shoes off to bury her toes in the cool sand.

They talked mostly business that night, Amelia and she. And although they'd both been careful not to fall into too many old habits, it was strange to see how much came back that she remembers from their long evenings at the kitchen table, evenings spent stabbing the air with cutlery and index fingers over food that got proportionally colder the hotter the issue was. The familiarity and the minds that raced each other. The ability to anger one another, and the comfort of not having to mince words. That is the thing about Amelia Bones – she never makes Minerva feel protective. Their egos are exactly of equal size, and equally rugged. It's what attracted them to each other in the first place. Attitudes that challenged, conversations that animated. Friction that sent the sparks flying, sometimes making them blow up at each other, sometimes with each other.

There had been no plans to meet up again. Yet when Fudge and his new Second deemed it fit to hold a full trial for a bit of inexplicable underage Magic, Amelia's owl reached Minerva before Kingsley's Patronus.

/\/\/\


	3. Chapter 3

**-Above-**

And so what if she has an affair?

Love isn't a goal that's credited either to you or the other Chaser. It isn't a trophy that's worth more when you have it to yourself.

Maybe it's even a muscle that grows stronger when you exercise it.

Maybe not everything can be expressed in sports metaphors.

Rolanda tips her broom and allows the wind to push her down. For some reason or other, she's been heading for Wales these past two hours.

To the cottage.

Home. Her and Minerva's cosy, no-nonsense, bookshelf-lined and broomshed-endowed home.

The home they bought together, two years after their holiday in Tuscany, two years after the Bones woman and Minerva had finally agreed to part ways. It's a pretty little thing, small enough to be easy to maintain, big enough to house both their passions and pastimes. Far enough from Hogwarts and close enough to Holyhead. It has a guest room and a large table, plumbing with no quirks that a good silencing spell can't mask, and a garden that can best be described as 'low-maintenance.'

It's as ridiculously close to perfect as a house can get.

They've never said it, to avoid tempting fate or putting pressure on the lover, but Rolanda knows that they both hoped to grow old here.

It still isn't out of the question.

But does it _have_ to be the Bones woman?

/\/\/\

**-Ministry-**

'Morning, Eric.'

'Morning, Ma'am. Early today.'

Amelia nods. Five-thirty _is_ early, even by her standards. The fountain in the entrance hall is still silent, and apart from a small crew of cleaning elves who frantically hurry out of sight as Amelia walks past, the hall is deserted. Amelia bites her lip. For years she's made a point of greeting the elves whenever she spotted them, but they always look so shocked at being seen by a senior staff member that she's gradually turned to pretending they're not there. Far from perfect as a reaction, she knows, but preferable to being the cause of self-harm in the broom-closets.

Frustrating, that. Yet she's learned, learned the hard way from failed attempts at youthful do-goodery and a post-pubescent sense of mission, that change, if it is to happen, has to come from within their ranks. All her kind can do is assist.

Don't they have a freedom-aware elf at Hogwarts?

She'd ask ... Susan.

On her way to her office, Amelia stops by the tea break room, only to find that the elves have cleaned it out quite thoroughly already. There isn't even a crumb from a leftover biscuit to chase away the mix of tea, fatigue, and nicotine that is the signature taste of the sleepless night.

After she left Holly, Amelia took a long walk through Godric's Hollow. Past the cemetery where so many of her loved ones lie, through a small grove and along the dry stone walls of the corn fields. Then she Apparated home to change for work. Trying to sleep would have been futile, and Amelia Bones resents futile efforts.

She pushes open the door to the Auror Headquarters. Block, a sturdy, pre-retirement witch with a refreshingly cranky manner and a preference for young Hit Wizards, is doing her nails, while Tonks lies slumped forward on her desk, her little purple head buried between her arms. One of these days she'll have to ask the girl what part of _night duty_ is so difficult to understand.

Yet for the moment, she limits herself to nodding a curt greeting at Block and quietly opening the door to her office.

A pink piece of parchment lies on her desk. _The Office of The Senior Undersecretary to The Minister of Magic_, is embossed on its letterhead in flowery cursive.

Amelia grimaces as she picks it up and breaks open the dainty seal. Expecting a tedious account of some third-rate issue, followed by the kind request for full and intensive co-operation, she peruses the lengthy, handwritten note.

'_NO!_'

Auror Tonks is wide awake when her boss storms past her this time, cloak and bag in hand.

/\/\/\

**-Home-**

The lock of the cottage door creaks as Rolanda opens it, Muggle style. They rarely use the old, rusty key on its misplace-me-not keychain. Rarely have to, in this honest corner of the world.

She pulls off her gloves as she steps across the threshold, and throws them on a dresser in the hall. Then she shrugs off her cloak and hangs it on one of the hooks in the wardrobe. It's empty now; she and Minerva shipped all their belongings to Hogwarts a week ago. She hates to see the wardrobe like this, greatly prefers its holiday self – alive, full of stories, overflowing with cloaks, bags, Quidditch gear, and boots to outfit the entire staff of a medium-sized Swiss finishing school.

Pictures adorn the wall above the dresser, some in slender brass or wooden frames, some simply pinned to the wall or tucked into the corners of larger frames. There are photos of Minerva or Rolanda at various award ceremonies, and one of the old Order, minus Minerva, who was on the other end of the lens. Most pictures, however, show two women. Two middle-aged women, wearing Harpies' fan scarves and waving a golden Snitch engraved _Love, Gwen_. Two slightly older women, a raven-haired in a tuxedo and a yellow-eyed in an emerald-green gown. And the same two women, with yet a few more wrinkles and yet more grey hair, but with the same tender, mischievous glow in their eyes, holding hands in a swaying lavender field.

Nearly two decades of love and laughter.

Funny thing, love.

One is tempted to think that after eighteen years of living, loving, working together, one has seen it all. The butterflies, the bliss, the banter. The rows and reconciliations. The quiet times, the fragile times, the times when you know you'll pull through even if you aren't yet sure how.

One is wrong.

/\/\/\

She goes out into the garden and sits down on a rock by the pond. It isn't often that she watches the sun come up, much less so with a glass of firewhisky in her hand. But she supposes that the circumstances warrant a bit of easy comfort, a bit of warmth for her insides, a bit of something to hold on to.

She twirls the tumbler in her hands as she draws in a deep breath.

The air tastes clean and crisp, laced with the peaty scent of fifteen-year-old Ogden's. Two early morning birds are singing, and a halo has begun to brighten the horizon, amber like the whisky in her glass.

She blinks as a smudge appears in the halo. A black smudge, rather shapeless, growing as it draws closer. _Minerva_, is her first thought, and she sets down the tumbler with a _thud_, stifling the impulse to Vanish it altogether.

When she sees whose shape it is that the smudge assumes, she's glad she didn't bother.

Morgaine's netherbeard, trust _that one_ to own a high-end vintage sports broom. A 1962 Lampo di Fuoco if she isn't very much mistaken, massive burl and silver footrests.

What's that saying about witches who don't get anything else between their thighs?

'You,' she comments as the woman manages a surprisingly graceful landing.

'Sorry to disturb,' says Amelia Bones as she swings a leg across the streamlined, ergonomically-shaped handle with the Linea Rosetta cushioning charm.

Rolanda dismisses the apology with a jerk of her head. 'She's not here.'

'Oh.' The jowls drop a trifle. 'I've been to Hogwarts already, but an elf said she's not there, either.'

'That so?' Rolanda asks, indicating another rock not far from her. 'Have a seat. You must be tired from all the flying.'

'No trouble; I Apparated most of the way. I don't want to impose.'

'And I don't usually offer seats to people who do. Want one of these?' She raises the tumbler.

'I'm on duty, technically.'

'And non-technically?'

'Non-technically I've had a white night.'

'That makes two of us.'

Rolanda waves her wand, and a bottle and another glass appear through an open window. 'Help yourself.'

Amelia shrugs off her worsted cloak. Letting it slide on the grass, she sits down on the rock next to Rolanda. 'I'm here on a school matter,' she begins as she uncorks the bottle and pours herself a small taste. 'I have bad news from the Ministry, and I prefer that she get it from me. Here.' She zips open her bag and fishes a parchment in a ghastly shade of pink out of its depths. 'If you could give her this when you see her?'

'M-hm,' Rolanda grumbles, eyeing the pink thing with a frown. Who does Miss Dark Wizard Catcher in Pinstripes think she's kidding?

'You can read it,' Amelia says as she catches the look in Rolanda's eyes. 'In fact, I'd encourage you to, given that it concerns the entire staff. And I apologise for the colour. Not my doing. It's a memo I got this morning.'

'M-hm,' Rolanda repeats.

It's always a bit awkward, talking to this one. Understandable, probably, given the constellation. They got off to the worst conceivable start back then, one that was as rocky as it was loud. However, eventually they managed to settle into mutual civility. Amelia apologised for her terminology (goodness, the _words_ this woman knows), and Rolanda apologised because it seemed like a decent thing to do. She got the woman, she could afford to be gracious. And who'd have thought that they'd even arrive at managing a joke here or there, despite the distance that would never quite go away?

What would it have been like, had they met otherwise?

There aren't many of their kind around. Wilhelmina comes to mind, but she's been practically married for the better part of the century. Griselda is a damn lucky woman.

But other than that?

Just suppose Rolanda and Amelia had met under different circumstances. Suppose they had been at Hogwarts together – could they possibly _not_ have become friends?

Would they have been in fierce competition with one another? For each correct answer you blurt out I will score two goals? Or would they have taken comfort in the reassuring knowledge of not being the only tomboy in the world, no matter that the other one was ... well ... _that_ one?

Would they have been rivals, jostling for the alpha position, or would they have spent nights out in some forbidden corner, consoling each other over sweet-natured Professor Vector or curvy Celestina? Would they have sneaked a bottle of cheap, red wine up from Hogsmeade on occasions, to drown the painful fact that all women were fickle (present company excluded)?

Somehow, it doesn't seem that impossible.

Rolanda drains the last of her firewhisky. Elbows resting on her knees, she looks at the small garden pond where a water strider dances on the surface.

'Do you love her?' she asks after a while.

'I'm sorry?' Amelia looks up, small eyes blinking rapidly.

'You heard me.'

'I ... We never ...'

'That's not what I asked,' Rolanda says, laying the pink parchment aside unopened. 'Do you love her?'

'Love.' There is a sigh, as so often when the word is spoken. 'Big word, isn't it? She'll always have a special place in my heart; we've been through too much together for it not to be so.' And, after a pause: 'You ...?'

'Yes,' Rolanda says. 'Yes, I know you've been seeing each other.'

Amelia swirls the firewhisky in her tumbler. 'For what it's worth, what I said is true. It's not been ... physical.'

'Because of me?'

One has to give her this: she has style, for she looks up at Rolanda as she answers: 'Yes.'

'Very well,' Rolanda sets her tumbler down in the grass.

Time to pronounce herself. And whatever it'll be, she'll have to live with the choice. Run the risk of losing Minerva, or try to keep her at the cost of her freedom. Put Minerva's needs first, or her own, whatever the hell those are. Allow someone in, or let someone go.

_If you catch a butterfly ..._

'I give you my blessing.'

'What? You can't be ...'

'Serious?' Rolanda smiles. 'Try me. If it's true what they say, you have the means to find out.'

'You can't possibly think that I'm going to use them!'

'Then take my word for it. I've spent this whole night in the air. My arse is sore and my muscles are stiff, but my head is as clear as it's ever been, and I'm telling you: whatever you and Minerva want, I will try to live with it. For now. I can't promise I'll never change my mind, but I'll try my damnedest. If I fail, you'll be the first to know.'

'Have you spoken to Minerva yet?'

Rolanda shakes her head. 'Haven't had the chance. Anyway, it's better for you to hear it first. With her sense of honour, she'll end up ditching both of us and join the Sisters of Perpetual Forbearance.'

'Can you blame her for not wanting to hurt you?'

'Hurt,' Rolanda snorts. 'Who says I won't get hurt more when my lover deprives herself for my sake and then compensates by being the irascible, unbearable Gryffindor firehead you know as well as I do? And who says a fulfilled lover can't have advantages? I suppose I'll just have to see.'

'Well-reasoned, if a tad high-minded,' Amelia ventures.

'Yes, I'm borderline Gryffindor,' Rolanda grunts. And adds, after a pause: 'Besides, it isn't as if I don't understand the mechanism. I can see why it's you, of all the medium-attractive witches in the world.'

'Can you now?'

'Thermodynamics. She can bend the laws of physics, but where there's friction, there will be heat. And you may well be the one person in this world, apart from Augusta Longbottom, perhaps, who doesn't bring out the protective lioness in her. She can use some of that in times like these. Plus, those tits are glorious.'

'Yes, that about sums it up,' says a dry voice from the doorway.

/\/\/\

Minerva brushes a speck of soot from her shoulder as she steps out onto the terrace.

'Fancy finding both of you here.'

'I better leave you alone.' Amelia picks up her bag and readies herself to rise.

'That might be good,' Minerva says. 'I think Rolanda and I should talk.'

'Wait,' Rolanda interjects, holding up a hand. 'Perhaps you'll allow me to get the first words in before everyone starts the general sparing of feelings?'

Minerva nods, and so does Amelia.

'All right,' she continues. 'You both have a desire that only you can fulfil for each other. And the only thing standing between you is me.'

'_Only_!' Minerva blurts out. 'I'd hardly refer to that as _only_!'

Rolanda holds up her hand. 'Hear me out. Am I right that you don't want to leave me altogether?'

'I ... You're my ... I can't make you ...'

'Yes, you can. And it's no use declining; I've already told Amelia, and if that broom is any indication of her libido, I trust that she won't let you off the hook that easily. Now, we may have to have a few ground rules, but we can see about that later.'

A dry laugh rises in Minerva's throat as she shakes her head. She reaches for Rolanda's glass and the bottle of Ogden's, and makes short work of a generous helping.

Standing between the rocks, she lets her gaze wander. From one elderly witch with rugged features and a severe haircut to the other, and back. And shakes her head again.

Rolanda. Straightforward, ever-honest partner in crime, in laughs, in love. She of the tall, slender body that grows more angular by the year, and more desirable for it. More desirable for the muscles and tendons that are more conspicuous now than when the flesh around them was firmer, for age spots and hanging triceps, and for the wrinkles they've acquired together, laughing, crying, or pulling faces at Puddlemere goals.

And Amelia. The one with whom she's been through too much not to cherish her as the exasperating, rules-obsessed old crone she is. The mind that pushes hers, the hands, the lips and the imagination that have accompanied her in explorations of pleasures she never knew she craved. It was with Amelia that she discovered what she wanted, in sex as in life. And what she _didn't_ want.

'I think I'm too old for this,' is all Minerva says. Taking a step further, she holds out her hands.

There they are. Rolanda's, sinewy, long-fingered – a practical hand, shaped by life, made for living. Amelia's. Smaller, that one, kept smooth by almond oil and weekly manicures, and bearing the white gold ring with the Bones family crest.

Both are warm to her touch, and both close around hers in their very own way. There's a thumb caressing the back of her hand, and there are fingers interlocking with hers.

Point and counterpoint.

The angular and the sturdy.

The soft and the wild.

The warm and the hot, the rock and the flintstone.

She looks up in time to catch the glance between Rolanda and Amelia as they rise from their rocks.

There is no competition in their eyes as Amelia's hand comes to rest in the small of Minerva's back, Rolanda's on her shoulderblade. Tentatively, lingering for a while before they wander further, pull her closer, into an embrace that tells her what words haven't been able to make her believe.

That it is all right.

When she closes her eyes, she feels a pair of lips on hers. Soft, with a taste of peppermint under the hint of firewhisky, and the scent of a warm cheek in her nose. Then another pair, harder, this one, more demanding, with that familiar, fading undertone of an early-morning cigarette that, strangely, has never bothered her.

Her hands cup the two necks, move up to run through short, grey hair, unruly and spiky here, soft and cut into shape there.

You always fall for the same type, her friends like to joke.

How wrong they are.

Mannish, they call them, her lovers. Butch, virile, you name it. Yet what does that say, other than that her lovers have always tended to be sturdy and short-haired, except perhaps Alastor? It's a fallacy, Minerva thinks, to believe that wearing heavy boots or a monocle, that having a gait like any grandmother's nightmare makes a woman the carbon copy of a man. Is it mannish to be tall and muscular? Amelia isn't. To be aggressive in sex? Tell Rolanda.

What they never see beneath the close-cropped hair and the stable posture is the Amelia of the full breasts, of the lipstick and pumps she wears with her suits and monocle when the fancy takes her. They never see the Rolanda who loves to sink back into the cushions, straddled by a long-haired lover, ready to be spoiled.

Feminine, masculine. Ill-defined terms that won't do for equations. The soft and the hard, the active and the passive, the desire to take and be taken, they both have it. Each in her own way, each in her own combination.

Each desirable for it.

Amelia's hand reaches for Rolanda's, and from the corner of her eye, Minerva sees Rolanda reaching back. Hand in hesitant hand, they look at each other, until it is Rolanda who pulls Amelia closer, arm brushing past a pinstripe-clad breast as if casually. Minerva feels Amelia's breath quicken in response, sees Amelia's hand slowly wandering up to Rolanda's neck, shivers and goosebumps telling her that neither of them find the touches unwelcome.

It is Minerva's turn to shiver when Rolanda's lips leave hers to find Amelia's.

'Let's go inside,' she whispers.

'Why?' There is a dimple on Rolanda's cheek and amusement in Amelia's voice as they ask the question, almost simultaneously.

And almost simultaneously, they touch the wands in the side pocket of the flying jodhpurs and the custom-made sheath in the back seam of the waistcoat. A shimmer appears above them with a faint tinkle, like an invisible marquee unfolded by a million fairies, and the lane that leads past the garden vanishes as the tips of the hedge in front of it push higher.

/\/\/\

Much later, a solitary ray of sunshine finally peeks around the corner of the building and through the bull-glass pane of the bedroom window. It makes a few specks of dust dance in its limelight before it teases Minerva's eyelids open, one by one.

A smile chases across Minerva's face when she feels the crumpled bedsheet against her cheek, warm like the body next to her, and soft like the sound of the light snore that makes her want to chuckle because she'd forgotten how much she hasn't missed it.

They Apparated here after all, laughing and cursing the spines and hips and knees that just don't seem to be made for leisurely loving on uneven surfaces any more, much less so when so many limbs have to be accommodated. Not to mention ants.

Memories come back as she surfaces from the slumber that claimed her from the arms she'd sunk into, spent and exhausted at last. Memories of the careful first embraces that morning, of the tentative exploration of the new, the unfamiliar, the really not quite possible. They took their time getting used to the reality of the touches, the kisses, indulging in differences and similarities, discoveries and rediscoveries, new wrinkles, new touches, old habits. None of them were sure how far this could go, each reluctant to spoil what they had by pushing for more.

Yet they knew very soon that there would be no going back. Knew it, at the latest, when a hand began to brush a strap of Minerva's green summer robe from her shoulder, and another undid the buttons of a shirt, slid between the hooks of a tailored waistcoat. The waistcoat, the robe, a belt and a pair of shoes were first to land in the grass. And as hands ventured further, opening buttons and buckles, undoing hooks and hairpins, as hair tumbled down and breasts were laid open to eyes, hands, and lips, they needed no words and no ground rules to know what would come.

The ray of sunlight has wandered down to her breasts. She is fully awake now. Brushing a lock of hair out of her face, she feels for the glasses on the nightstand, rolls onto her other side, and pushes herself up on her elbow to gaze at the women who share her bed.

They're sweet as they lie there, fast asleep. A spiky head rests against a sun-dipped breast with a soft nipple that contracts with every breath that brushes past it. A large hand on an ample stomach, and a smaller one on a toned deltoid.

She smiles again as her eyes fall on the object at the foot of the bed. It is sleek and silver, slightly curved, with a bulged tip like a small head bowing to show its willingness to serve and please at all times. Four shimmering straps are attached to its flat end.

'What do you want?' they whispered as she'd Apparated them into the bedroom, Amelia to her right, Rolanda to her left. Instead of giving an answer, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She can do Summoning charms without a wand, even through closed chests. Locked chests, however, present more of a challenge.

Naturally, it was Rolanda, the Chaser, who held up her hand and caught the object.

'You decide,' Minerva remembers saying, or was it pleading, when she reclined on the mattress, and she remembers the urge in her voice, the excitement of not knowing, not even caring who would be the one to claim her, and how.

/\/\/\

They managed to surprise her still.

With a hint of a bow – 'Will you do the honours?' – Rolanda handed the toy to Amelia, who accepted it with a gesture that might have looked gracious, had it not been for a hint of amusement in her eyes. She gave Minerva a sly look, whispered something that put a dimple on Rolanda's cheek, and with a snap of her fingers Vanished the pristine, white fabric around Minerva's hips. Then she eased herself behind Minerva's back in a movement surprisingly graceful for someone her weight, and when her hands reached around Minerva's hip to position the toy, it wasn't with the round end pointing at Minerva.

'Hold it,' she ordered Rolanda as she strapped it on hard, placing it just high enough so it would stand erect, just low enough so that it would pleasure the wearer as well.

'That feel right?' Amelia asked.

And cupped her breasts hard as Rolanda knelt down on the bed and placed her lips on the silvery bulge.

/\/\/\

Point and counterpoint indeed.

Rolanda and Amelia. Melodies, different yet of the same key, each a song in its own right. Cacophony if thrown together negligently, a fugue if juxtaposed with care.

Arms that hold her, legs that straddle her. Hands that know when to caress and when to hurt, mouths that leave her breasts and throat and lips only for each other.

Swell and ebb, rhythm and rest.

'Talk to me,' she recalls saying to Amelia, and there again is the memory of whispers in her ear as Rolanda sank down on her, ready to take her in at last. The memory of smooth words and rhythmic strokes, of Rolanda's hips pushing Minerva into Amelia's arms, gently at first, then more forcefully, and of Amelia responding in kind. Beads of sweat that appeared, breath that quickened, and then, suddenly, Rolanda looking at Amelia, voice heavy with the arousal of Minerva inside her.

'Join me,' she said.

There was a small hesitation, a moment of uncertainty, perhaps, if Rolanda had really meant what she'd said. Yet the hand that reached out for Amelia's left no doubt.

'I want you to feel this with me.'

It always took Amelia a few heartbeats to prepare, to focus her mind and collect her willpower. For a moment, it was to Minerva as if she could feel the concentration build up, even feel Amelia's mind brush past her temples before it travelled on to join Rolanda's. She saw the look in Rolanda's face, ready to invite Amelia in, saw the parted lips that formed a silent gasp at the first sensation of the unfamiliar presence. She heard the moans that told her that their minds had fully joined – oh yes, Legilimency could do that – and felt their breaths and their strokes and their rhythms fall into an ever-quickening cadence.

Much later, as she lay sated and spent, heavy with the pleasures of taking and being taken, of bodies pressing and thrusting against her, taking from her and then giving so much more in return, sleep came to claim her at last. They'd come for her, with each other, and wouldn't rest until they'd made her own body arch and buck with their tongues and their hands and their words, how often, she does not know. And it was through the veil of the first light slumber that she heard the sheets rustling by her side, and breaths growing ragged once more as one sturdy body moved down on another, closing the circle.

She fell asleep with a smile.

/\/\/\

Minerva takes care to avoid the cranky spring by the bottom of the mattress and the creaking floorboard next to the nightstand as she snakes herself out of the bed. The wardrobe could do with a bit of oil, too, so she opens it just a crack to fish out an old dress that is no longer fit for Hogwarts.

Then she tiptoes down the stairs.

There's a spare moka somewhere in the back of a kitchen cupboard, and some forgotten coffee powder in a tin. It's from last year, but it will do.

Rolanda appears in the doorway just as she puts the moka on the fire. There's something Roman about her as she stands there, clad in one of the bedsheets. Her shirt never made it to the bedroom with them.

'Morning, kitten.'

'Morning, hatchling of a bearded vulture.'

A brisk voice from the corridor interrupts their good-morning kiss. 'You're disgusting!'

Amelia strides into the kitchen, fully coiffed, shod, and dressed save for the waistcoat, fastening a pair of cufflinks with the help of her teeth.

'Coffee?' Minerva asks, but Amelia shakes her head.

'Better be off,' she says, releasing the right cuff from the grip of her incisors. 'My lunch break doesn't last forever. Where's my waistcoat?'

'Where you left it.'

Amelia opens the door to the terrace, shielding her eyes against the sun, and Minerva watches her from the kitchen as she bends to pick up cloak, waistcoat, and broom in the grass.

We may need a few ground rules, Rolanda said that morning.

Perhaps that is so. Then again, perhaps they won't be necessary. Perhaps all it takes is the understanding that it is more faithful to a loved one to be honest than to imagine her body to be someone else's. Rolanda is right, Minerva knows her thermodynamics. Where there is steam, there will be pressure, and pressure will always find its release. If not controlled, then uncontrolled.

She greatly prefers controlled.

Amelia comes back in, cloak buckled, waistcoat buttoned, monocle firmly in place, carrying her broom and bag. Beneath the stern professionalism and the reassembled faculties there is a certain softness playing around the corners of that thin-lipped mouth.

'I don't expect to be invited along on the next family holiday,' she says as she kisses first Minerva's cheek, then Rolanda's, and allows them to kiss her back.

She takes a liberal pinch from the tin on the mantel. 'Yet should unspeakable boredom overcome you, one snowy Sunday in winter perhaps, I shall gladly expect your owl.'

A green flame erupts, sweeping Amelia Bones up through the chimney and out of Minerva's and Rolanda's kitchen, back into the embrace of her primary relationship.

The moka pot gurgles quietly.

/\/\/\ _fin _/\/\/\


End file.
